


May 1990

by ZarAlexander



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 23:50:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4119115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZarAlexander/pseuds/ZarAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“A nation who makes its revolution by singing and smiling should be a sublime example to all.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	May 1990

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Taimi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taimi/gifts).



> English is not my native language.  
> Please, point out any mistakes!

“Rahvas, kes lauldes ja naerdes revolutsiooni teeb, peaks olema õilsaks eeskujuks kõigile”  
“A nation who makes its revolution by singing and smiling should be a sublime example to all.”  
Heinz Valk, 1988

 

\----

 

He tilted his head to the side, violet eyes narrowing to follow the path of yet another drop of blood. He stretched his hand, wiping the swollen and bruised lips in front of him with a pale thumb. He lingered for a moment, fingers tracing the curve of a chin and slipping down a red-stained throat.  
Another finger joined the dance, then another and another.  
He closed his grip, hard, pushing that small, battered figure further into the wall until it stopped breathing.  
Not a gasp, not a tear.  
Still dripping blood, still tumescent, those lips remained curved in their everlasting smile.   
Raising his fingers one by one, he released the pressure, staring at the white blotches his fingertips had produced on top of the intricate pattern of scratches and contusions. They lasted for a second, quickly losing their candor in favor of a reddened halo.  
How ironically fitting.   
A fury as cold as winter flooded his veins.   
A slap echoed in the damp air, loud enough to make chain-bound arms rattle against the brick wall.   
Not a moan, not a single verse.  
Just an eternal smile, a frozen grimace of pride and defection.   
One more slap.  
One more, one more until he found himself panting, teeth gritted and hands trembling in the purest rage as he frantically tried to erase that grin, that living blemish and reminder of his failure.   
Yet, it was still there.  
Maimed, bleeding and bruised – and yet smiling.   
It was slipping through his fingers – how many more would follow? 

He kicked the figure in front of him, he kicked him again and again.  
He'd bend sooner or later. He'd bend like he always did. He'd fear him, like everyone else, and as soon as terror would regain its throne inside of the little rebel mind, everything would stop.  
Then it came.  
Out of the blue, like a thunder on a rare summer day, the slow, rough humming.  
It was just a whisper at first, just a gust of breath parting from battered lips.  
But it grew with every hit, steadily, more and more until it became a song whose words he didn't want to understand.   
Every note spread through his body and into his brain like a poisonous mist, making rage and fury pool into his stomach and push up and up, until it erupted into a feral growl.   
One last blow, cruel enough to make the metal chains vibrate.  
The wall in front of him cracked. The screws holding the shackles together came undone and fell on the floor in a mixed rain of iron and plaster flakes. 

It was over.  
He looked down.  
Without the chains holing him up, the man had crumpled to his knees.  
His smile however, didn't falter.  
Nor did his song.  
As Ivan Braginsky walked away, the humming that would haunt his nightmares still echoed in the distance.

 

\- The End -

**Author's Note:**

> Epilogue
> 
> “The next day, a Russian group called Interfront marched on the Estonian capital and broke through the gates. They tore down the blue, black and white flag and raised the Soviet hammer and sickle. As they prepared to storm the building and take hostages, the prime minister beseeched the Estonian people by radio to come to the aid of their country. Within minutes, thousands of Estonians had descended on the capital city of Toompea, closing ranks around the Interfront mob so that the only way out was through the Estonian crowd. Shouting “Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!” and “Out! Out! Out!” the crowd parted to allow the Interfront rebels to safely retreat.  
>  Not a drop of blood was shed.  
> When their capital was secure, activist Marju Lauristin stood out on the balcony of the building and thanked the people. “We were sure that if you came to help us that you would do it in the way you did. With your intelligence, your songs, your heart. That is when we are at our strongest.   
> Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” 
> 
> And the people of Estonia raised their clasped hands to the sky above, and sang.”
> 
> Source: http://thecenterforcreativehealing.com/the-singing-revolution-2/


End file.
